


upside down from the moon

by Addison R (beyond_belief)



Category: The Long Walk - Richard Bachman
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21920533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Addison%20R
Summary: Garraty wakes in a motel room and wonders, is this Heaven or is this purgatory?
Relationships: Ray Garraty/Peter McVries
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	upside down from the moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PositivelyVexed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PositivelyVexed/gifts).



For the first twenty-four hours after the Walk is interrupted in a hail of gunfire and the rush of a chanting crowd, Ray is certain he's either dead or hallucinating. Dead seems more likely; surely hallucinations are more disjointed, more fragmented, more nonsensical. That this motel is Heaven's - or Hell's - waiting room seems to make the most sense. 

He remembers the soldiers dropping suddenly; confusion at first until he realized the thing that had just skipped across the road a few feet ahead of him was a bullet. _Snipers_ , he thinks McVries might have hissed. He remembers a crowd of people surrounding them, armed. Remembers being picked up. The person who was holding him running. He remembers crying out for McVries, or trying to.

The bed he's in feels real, but anything could feel real if he's dead. The room smells a little stale. Ray feels his nose wrinkle, a slow crawling in his gut. He lifts his hands, puts them to his eyes. The pressure seems real. 

"You're not dead, my boy," someone says. 

Ray struggles to sit up - God, everything hurts. It's then that he decides he's probably alive, because he wouldn't hurt like this. He opens his eyes. It's McVries. " _You're_ not dead," Ray says, stupidly.

"I've been awake fifteen minutes, waiting for you to catch up." McVries stretches slightly, before his face contorts in pain. Ray looks away out of courtesy. "Those people that..." McVries trails off. "They left us here. I think to hide."

Ray manages to get himself propped up against the headboard so he can look around the room. There's a plastic jug of water next to a paper sack on the dresser with the television, and a bright red box that looks like a first aid kit. "Is that food?"

"I think so. I haven't been able to talk myself into getting up to look."

Ray swings his gaze to his feet and sees that someone has removed his shoes - cut them away, most likely. His socks are discolored with blood and dirt, ragged in some places, clearly stuck to the skin of his feet in others. The hole over his big toe hadn't gotten much bigger, but his toe itself is mottled purple. _Are those my feet?_ he thinks wildly, as a hot surge of panic rises in his chest. He closes his eyes, and it falls back down again just as quick. 

"I think if we soak our feet in the bathtub, we can get our socks off," McVries is saying. 

"Pete," Ray gasps, still with his eyes closed, "I don't know if I can stand up."

"The bathroom is right there," McVries replies. Somehow he sounds calm. "Only a few steps. If we bring one of those chairs, one of us can sit on that and the other on the toilet. I thought about it while you were sleeping."

"Okay," Ray says. "Okay."

"We can do it, Ray. We made it this fucking far."

The profanity startles a laugh out of Ray. He moves his legs over the side of the bed and looks at McVries, who's done the same. "At least this floor is carpet, right?"

"That's the spirit." McVries tries to smile, but it just looks terrifying, his face is so sunken. His scar stands out vividly. Ray is sure his own face looks no less beaten. "I'll bring the chair. You bring the first aid kit."

The four steps to the dresser are agony. The seven steps from there to the toilet are agony. He hears McVries dragging the chair. Ray gets the stopper in the drain, somehow. "Lukewarm is probably best," he mutters, then turns on the tap. 

They sit with their feet in the slowly filling tub. Ray can't help the reflexive jerk as the water surrounds his aching feet, but he forces himself to stay still, and after what feels like forever, the feeling eases. The muscles in his calves relax all at once. "God, I feel like my legs are made of Jell-o all of a sudden," he says to McVries. 

"Me, too." McVries puts his head in his hands. Worry spikes in Ray's gut, but dully; he's too tired still to really feel anything as a jolt. 

He puts his hand on McVries' - Pete's, he doesn't need to think of him with that space between them anymore - shoulder. He rubs his thumb in a slow circle against the bone. He looks at the water in the tub, where some of the blood and dirt has dissolved out of their socks, leaving it murky and pinkish. 

Pete isn't crying, but Ray can feel the occasional tremor run through him. "How long do you think we should soak before…" he starts, still not looking at Pete. 

"We might as well sit here until it stops feeling so nice." Pete lifts his head. Ray keeps his hand where it is, and Pete reaches up, squeezes his fingers. "I'm glad it's you here with me."

"Me too."

They don't talk for a while. Ray manages to turn enough to get the glass that's sitting on the sink and fill it with water - from the tub faucet, that's easier - and they pass it back and forth until it's empty. Then Ray tries wiggling his toes. The pain nearly turns his stomach at first, but then the feeling passes. 

Slowly and carefully, they peel off their socks. There's only one spot where Ray has to grit his teeth and work the material loose. Is he just getting used to the soreness, he's not sure. When his feet are bare, he looks at Pete. "Okay, drain the tub, then fresh water?"

Pete nods. 

They both watch as this evidence of the Walk swirls away down the drain. Ray turns the tap on once more, a little warmer this time. "You think there's anything in the kit that'll keep all our blisters and shit from getting infected?" he asks, gesturing at the first aid kit where it's sitting on the edge of the tub on Pete's other side. 

"Maybe, let's look."

There's more stuff in the box than Ray's ever seen in a first aid kit before. "I suppose alcohol," he says, sliding the little bottle free. "Maybe there's not enough for it to really sting."

"Do it."

It stings, but barely. They soak for a while longer, sorting out what definitely needs bandaging versus what might not need it. "We should do that part out there, where there's more room," Pete points out, and Ray agrees. 

The motel towels are thin, but work well enough to blot away the water. They hobble back to the beds, leaving the chair behind, and spread the first aid kit out on Ray's bed. "I think all my toenails are gone," Ray says, sitting down on Pete's bed and looking down at his feet.

"Mine too."

They bandage up the best they can. Whoever left them here left new socks on the dresser, and new clothes - just sweatpants and t-shirts, but it startles Ray into realizing they're still in their musty Walk clothes. "I guess I won't change until I can stand up longer enough to shower," he says. "But I'm taking my pants off."

"Good idea." Pete rattles the small bottle of aspirin. "Want some?"

"Christ, yes. Did you look in the grocery sack?"

"No, I was waiting for you." He gives Ray that slanted smile, then shakes four aspirin into Ray's outstretched hand. Ray steps carefully to the jug of water with little plastic cups beside it and pours them each a cupful. He's thirsty, but something tells him he shouldn't just drink until he feels satiated; that path no doubt leads to a stomachache. 

"Disappointed there's no beer," Pete says, and Ray actually laughs at that. It makes his face ache. "Let's see what they left us to eat."

They leave the first aid supplies on Ray's bed and unpack the grocery sack on Pete's. There's a loaf of bread and a package of processed cheese - better than the rations - and a few bananas on the top, then underneath is a box of sugar cookies, a roll of Ritz crackers, sealed cups of applesauce with plastic spoons taped to the lids, four apple juice boxes, and a container of butter. On the bottom of the bag are plastic knives and pieces of paper towelling. 

Ray takes a juice box without even thinking about it and pokes the little straw through the foil. He closes his eyes at the first taste, then hears Pete laughing. "What?"

"Is that the face you make when you jerk it?"

"Man, you're real obsessed," Ray answers, even as he feels himself flush. He sucks noisily at the juice box so that Pete will laugh again. When he opens his eyes, he sees that Pete's got four slices of bread on one of the towels. "Cheese sandwich?"

"One for you, and one for me." He spreads the soft butter carefully to the edges of the bread. "I'm so glad it's not goddamned peanut butter."

After all the concentrates, the sandwich tastes amazing. Ray takes slow bites so that the enjoyment will last. Halfway through, he starts to feel tired again, but more in the way where his muscles are all finally loosening, instead of sheer exhaustion. He leans his shoulder against Pete's and takes another bite. "Think we can turn the television on?"

"Nobody left any sort of note that says we can't, just that piece of paper by the food that said someone would bring more tomorrow."

"I don't even know what day it is." Ray frowns, and looks at the window, where the curtain is pulled tightly closed. "Maybe it's safer if we don't look."

"Yeah, you're probably right." Pete's shoulder shifts away slightly as he reaches towards the nightstand between the beds to pick up the square TV remote, but then he leans back against Ray. Their arms press together warmly; Ray finds it's comforting. 

There's a mindless game show on the channel that appears, the one where people win a car if they have the most correct guesses by the end of the show. How many jellybeans are in this bag? How many apples are in this barrel? How many bullets are in this jar? 

He shudders hard, and Pete's fingers curl butter-slick around his wrist. 

"Thanks," Ray breathes, as the fear passes. 

Pete squeezes gently. Then he says, "Your thumb is bleeding."

Ray looks down dumbly, sees it's dry skin finally cracked open where he'd unconsciously worried it ragged. Pete says, "Here, I'll grab you a Band-Aid."

Ray rests his hand on Pete's bare knee as Pete squeezes a little antibacterial from the tube and smears it on, then wraps a careful bandage around Ray's thumb. "Thanks," he says again, for the second time. 

Pete shrugs and smiles at him, softer and more open than his previous smiles. "Welcome."

Once the winner gets their car, Ray gets up to piss, then wets one of the washcloths to rub over as much of his skin as he can reach. It's enough that the itchy, grimy feeling eases. He rinses out the cloth, then holds it dripping to his face for a moment. There are toothbrushes, so he cleans his teeth as well. Pete's waiting to take his turn when he's done, and Ray says, "I'll clean up the first aid stuff, unless you need something else."

"Just leave it there, Ray, we can share my bed," Pete says easily, and steps past him. 

That's all right with Ray. He eats a cookie while Pete's doing his business, lying on his back on the bed. Another game show is on, this one to win a house. He listens to the studio audience cheer. Pete comes back and stretches out next to him. "Felt so nice to brush my teeth with real toothpaste," he sighs. "The Advil kick in for you?"

Ray still aches, and his feet are still throbbing, but it's not as bad. "Yeah, you?"

"I could run a marathon right now," Pete tries to say, except he laughs in the middle of it, making Ray laugh. But it's an odd laugh, strange and hollow, and the pressure in Ray's chest tells him it's only one step away from crying. He rolls towards Pete, and Pete towards him, and he puts his hand on Pete's arm. 

"I wish I knew what happens next," he says, looking at Pete's shadowed face. He moves his hand and touches Pete's scar. 

Pete nods, a small movement under Ray's fingertips. He whispers, "It was the worst at night, when it was dark."

It's Ray's turn to nod. Something makes him say, "I kept wanting to reach out." Makes him confess, "I wanted to take your hand. I thought I was losing my mind."

"We lived," Pete says sharply, and presses his clean mouth to Ray's. They were already close, he didn't have far to move, and Ray's hand is still resting on his cheek. Ray kisses back, closing his eyes. He can feel Pete shaking. He can feel how warm Pete is. The studio audience is cheering. Ray takes a breath, bring his mouth back to Pete's again, feels Pete's lips still shaping words: _we lived, we lived_.


End file.
